


Retainer

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blindness, Ficlet, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 19:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18058727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Noctis sneaks food out to a wounded angel.





	Retainer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For the first time in several years, Noctis stays at the Citadel for the fifth night in a row. His father comments on it over dinner, supposing that perhaps he’s finally ready to embrace his role as the future ruler of their kingdom, and Noctis begrudgingly smiles and pretends that’s what’s going on. It’s easier than the truth. Every time his father’s eye drifts to the grand view beyond their dining room windows, Noctis sneaks bread rolls into his pockets. When he excuses himself for the night, he takes his glass with him. 

Fortunately, security is relatively lax in the upper levels—the few people he does pass in the halls are servants rather than glaives, and they bow and hurry on rather than tail or eye him up. There isn’t even anyone waiting outside his quarters, like there usually is outside his apartment building or down around the Citadel’s grand doors. His personal Shield’s checked in once or twice, but Noctis was able to assure Gladiolus that he’s perfectly safe, holed up alone in his childhood home. 

He still looks both ways down the corridor before he slips inside his chambers. He shuts and locks the door behind him, shunting the glass into his other hand. Then he moves carefully from room to room, quiet with his footsteps, lest he startle the creature that likely lies somewhere deeper in. 

He finds his guest in the sitting room. His breath catches as soon as he steps inside, as it’s done every time that he’s set eyes on the man: Ignis is a vision beyond all compare. He’s perched on Noctis’ sofa with exacting posture, legs delicately drawn to the side and hands calmly resting on his lap. His handsome face is turned towards the balcony, where the glass doors are closed but the curtains are drawn open. The darkened evening light silhouettes him in a warm, effervescent glow. He’s fitted neatly in crisp, formal clothes that Noctis has smuggled out of nearby closets, and the only thing that gives away his outsider status is the long, elegant white wings that branch out behind him, taking up the entirety of the sofa. Noctis’ gaze is automatically drawn there, to the endearing, slightly-ruffled feathers that he knows are so soft to touch. Then he lifts his eyes again to Ignis’, which turn towards him, milky white.

A jagged, painful looking scar mars Ignis’ left side. It snakes over one eye, and Noctis suspects that’s the root of his blindness, but Noctis has already brought Ignis all the elixirs he could find, and none did anything to erase that wound. At least he was able to patch up the rest—Ignis’ wings look full and strong again, far less ratty than when he first crashed onto Noctis’ balcony nearly a week ago. He was a broken mess then, but Noctis has slowly nursed him back to health. In a way, it’s almost ironic. Noctis might not be embracing the role his father wants him to, but he is engaging in more responsibility than his father would usually give him credit for. But then, he wasn’t given much choice. He came back to collect an old game console he’d left behind, only to find a fallen angel in desperate need of help, and he simply couldn’t pass that responsibility onto someone else. 

He’s not hoarding Ignis for himself. It’s not that Ignis is _beautiful_. It’s not that he’s intelligent and kind, and sharing his company has become as easy as speaking with Prompto or Gladiolus. It’s that they live in a constant state of war, and he doesn’t know how his father would react to a man not fully human. Noctis knows how to react. His heart’s already beating faster as he moves across the room, delighted when Ignis leans forward to fold his wings against his back, leaving room for Noctis on the couch. 

Noctis takes a seat that’s probably too close. Ignis doesn’t protest, only shifts to face him, knees nudging up against Noctis’ and staying there. Donning a languid smile across his thin lips, Ignis murmurs, “Noct. I’m glad you have returned.”

“Me too,” Noctis replies. There’s nothing else as interesting in the entire Citadel—maybe the entire world. He reaches out to take Ignis’ hand, turning it over and drawing it up. He slips the glass into it, telling Ignis, “I brought some food. Sorry, I couldn’t get it sent up. Dad—” He cuts himself off. He never likes divulging his title, though most people know it anyway. Ignis is the one person who _doesn’t_ inherently know that Noctis is his prince. Or a prince. Noctis isn’t sure where Ignis is from. Ignis nods, signally that it’s alright. Noctis knew it would be. Ignis is polite and patient to a fault. 

He drinks the cool water Noctis has provided him, and he takes a few small bites of the bread rolls Noctis stuffs into his hand. He doesn’t eat much, but he’s told Noctis he used to cook quite a bit, and Noctis has expressed that he would like to taste Ignis’ dishes. It’s just not time to bring Ignis to the kitchens. He sits in silence, just enjoying Ignis’ unassuming presence, while Ignis eats what he’s been given. 

When Ignis is on his last few bites, Noctis breaks. He’s become too comfortable with Ignis—he blurts out what’s been on his mind since the night they met. “Ignis... what _happened_ to you?”

Ignis pauses. He doesn’t exactly tense—if he did, Noctis would withdraw the question. Ignis only looks thoughtful. He takes another bite and slowly answers, “I made a grave mistake, it seems. I flew over Tenebrae, a territory now held by the Empire.” Noctis’ hands clench into fists against his thighs—he knows that all too well. “They shot something at me, though I’m not sure of the weapon, and it had... repercussions. Fortunately, I was able to carry on my flight, albeit in pain and limping. I believe I made my destination, and it’s fared better than I hoped.”

Just hearing about Ignis’ injuries is difficult for Noctis. He’s never been particularly vicious about the war, but he hates Niflheim for this. Then the last bit registers, and he asks, confused, “Your destination?” Surely Ignis wasn’t looking for _him_ , although if it’s some sort of angelic soulmate magic thing, he’s more than happy to indulge it. 

Ignis replies more generally: “Lucis. ...You are Lucian, aren’t you? We seem to be in well-off accommodations, and your accent is about what I’d expected...”

“Oh,” Noctis mumbles. At least Ignis can’t see his blush. “Right. ...You are in Lucis. Insomnia, actually.”

Ignis nods. “Unfortunately, the unconquered lands have become somewhat difficult to survive in, with daemons on the rise... I’d thought I might have a better life here...”

Noctis’ stomach clenches. They’ve stumbled on his fear. He _wants_ to give Ignis a good life. It takes him a minute to figure out how to phrase his doubts. “You... might have some misconceptions here too...” They won’t _shoot_ at Ignis exactly, at least, he hopes not—he thinks they’d ask question first, _then_ shoot. But he could see the guard mistaking Ignis for a daemon. Ignis might be incredibly handsome, but he’s also otherworldly, and Noctis knows how much some of their soldiers truly hate anything different. He doesn’t know how to tell Ignis that. While he’s figuring it out, Ignis bends forward, feeling for the coffee table and setting down the glass. When he straightens out again, his hand finds Noctis’ knee. It gives Noctis a sharp intake of breath. Ignis’ skin is like silk, his body wondrously _warm_. He gives Noctis a little squeeze.

“I’ve heard tales of the Lucian king,” Ignis murmurs, as though to reassure his saviour. “He is strong, but fair, and his son is equally kind-hearted. I know I might not be instantly accepted, but I believe if I could speak to them, they would at least hear me out. ...Which is why I must ask you, you who have been so good to me, yet another favour. If you know how I might go about arranging this meeting, I would be eternally grateful.”

Noctis had no idea. He’d assumed everyone across the water would hate them, like how they hate Niflheim, and it’s bizarrely pleasant to hear Ignis unknowingly speak well of him. Feeling faintly choked up, he agrees, “Okay. I’ll... introduce you. When I can.” He’ll speak to his father. And he’ll gradually introduce the idea of an _angel_ , one that Noctis is sure that they can trust. He knows his father isn’t cruel. 

Ignis smiles so beautifully. He lifts his hand to cup Noctis’ cheek, fingers gently stroking back into his hair, thumb gliding over his jaw. Noctis places his own hand over it, just needing to _feel_ more of Ignis.

“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” he promises. He’s always bitterly shied away from the idea of taking care of his whole nation, but this is where he’ll start. Growing up is easier when it’s for Ignis’ sake. 

Ignis whispers, “Thank you,” and leans in to kiss his cheek.


End file.
